


any illimitable star

by theviolonist



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-27
Updated: 2012-05-27
Packaged: 2017-11-06 03:26:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/414194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theviolonist/pseuds/theviolonist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He doesn't really want to leave.</p>
            </blockquote>





	any illimitable star

**Author's Note:**

> This came out from absolutely freaking nowhere. Here, have some weird, undefined AU. Also, more a drabble than anything. I don't even know, okay. Also, unbeta!ed, so if someone volunteers. Title from e e cummings' glorious poem love is the only every god.

He hears them before he sees them, lost in the smells of fresh bread and the creaking of the crumbs. He lets out a sigh. He doesn't really want to leave. He hoped they would take more time to find him.

He unties his apron slowly, fingers tangling with the cloth. He takes a look around the bakery, takes in the coloured walls, the icing on the cake, ornate and delicate, Mary laughing with a customer at the other end of the counter. He'll miss them, he thinks, but nostalgia doesn't suit him.

He hears the car roaring outside, their steps on the ground. He closes his eyes and imagines the dust flying around them, trying to obscure their shadows. The smells overwhelm him – he tries to recognize each one of them, as though they were a symphony and he was trying to recognize the instruments. He knows them by heart – trumpet, flute, cello, violin, and the delicate, sugary-fingered piano in the back.

He counts the minutes down in his head. He won't leave before it's absolutely necessary, but it won't be long now.

_Three._

Mary's eyes snap open from where she had been closing them, laughing. His curls tickle his face a little. He doesn't brush them off.

_Two_.

A blond-haired guy is smiling in front of him, ordering a strawberry  _tartelette_. His accent is thick, Irish. He sounds like he has a lot of heart, bubbling. Maybe they'd have been friends, if he'd stayed. Most likely. He's very friendly. He's got enemies, of course, who doesn't, but he has a lot of friends, too.

_One_.

He spares a second to think about everything he's leaving behind. There's too much to fit in his head at once, so he just reviews them one after the other, more quickly than he'd have liked. The force of habit makes adrenalin start running in his veins. His fingers twitch. Any moment now. He hopes they won't be too scared.

He hopes they won't make too much of a mess, either. He's tired of leaving messes behind him.

_Go_.

He slinks to the back door, eyes suddenly open, startlingly green, felinely fluid. He's too used to fleeing – he doesn't like it.

He runs to the gas station. He didn't want to have a car ready, too conspicuous, too noisy, too obvious. His lungs are burning but he feels strangely good, sweat prickling on his skin. He's thirsty. The heat is seeping into his body, making it heavier, slower.

There's a rent-a-car service behind the station. He's rented something small, not too small because he doesn't want to be cramped, but small enough not to be too blatant when he leaves. Maybe he'll take a hitchhiker. He always feels a bit lonely on these drives.

There's a man outside of the gas station, filling his scar. He has an earbud in one ear and is dancing to the music, oddly spasmodic moves. He's wearing the most ridiculous sunglasses Harry's even seen. He salutes him as Harry passes him, a cheery "Oy, mate!" that puts a smile to Harry's lips. He salutes back, spring back in his step.

The man is still here when he steps out of the shop with a bottle of water, leaning against his car, eyes half-closed. He seems to be waiting for something. Harry thinks it might be him.

He smiles at Harry – beams.

"Oy," he repeats, lower, maybe with a hint of seduction and maybe not. "Going somewhere, Curly?"

Harry can't help the smile that stretches his lips. The nickname already feels used, worn, strands of wool sticking from it. Harry feels like he might get used to it, if he isn't careful.

He shrugs. "Maybe."

The guy sticks out a hand. "Louis," he says. Harry decides the name suits him. He seems to have a particular brand of crazy Harry thinks he might like.

He shakes Louis' hand. "Harry," he answers.

The smile tugs at the corners of his mouth again and wins. The sirens are already burning in the air in town. They can hear them like distant bells – it seems like an appropriate soundtrack to their story. Harry can feel the stories when they start, light like butterfly wings, leaving tiny pads of colour on his fingertips.

Louis doesn't ask, "Are they for you?", but it passes between them, an unspoken answer to an unspoken question. They're smirking at each other. The sirens are getting closer, but they're still far, at least for now.

Louis climbs into his car, the smile never leaving his lips.

"Where to?" he simply asks.

The sun is burning Harry's back through the cloth of his shirt. He knows his hair gets lighter under the sun – it must almost be completely blond now.

He shrugs again as he climbs into the car, a smooth movement that makes the muscles roll pleasantly under his skin. He feels like a tiger, out in the burning heat, rearview mirror sending flashes of white light into his eyes.

"Who knows?" he says.

Louis laughs, a low sound that rumbles in his throat, pleased and sunny.

"Let's go, then," he says, and pushes the key into the ignition lock.

The car starts easily, sending clouds of golden dust behind them.

It takes them two miles to lose the sirens. The car already smells like music and freedom and friendship, and maybe more. 


End file.
